


oh! what a tangled web we weave

by Kierkegarden



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "Plot" as a vehicle for banter, Art History, As I write more it becomes more self indulgent, Fluff, Historical, Humanism, I haven't read Good Omens in literal years, Immortality, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pirate!Crowley, Renaissance Era, Scottish Textiles, There may be a divine plan for this piece but I do not have one, Venice, classic art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-06-15 13:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15413562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: “It really meant a lot to you, then?”“It didn’t,” Crowley explained, “until the plague hit. Between you and me, I wasn’t able to live up to it - to revel in the death and destruction. I felt sick. I had friends who were Galars.”“Hush now,” said Aziraphale, “It was only a test run.”--It is the mid-1500s and Crowley has accidentally burned a sentimental gift - a one of a kind tartan blanket -  in a bonfire. Aziraphale intends to restore it, purely for historical integrity and certainly not as a favor for a dear friend. As far as Heaven is concerned, of course.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sir Walter Scott, from his 1808 poem Marmion.

There were many things about A.J. Crowley that Aziraphale didn’t understand. Naturally, of course, given the circumstances under which they knew one another, there were bound to be some differences in character. Given the nature of their work, Aziraphale would say - if he was forced to explain it to anyone else. The whole “good” and “evil” factor was a start. It was just becoming in vogue to question the objectivity of such powerful constructs. However, Aziraphale thought privately, that the real discrepancies between the two of them fell on how they interpreted the phrase “afternoon tea”. The buzzing of bodies in the marketplace was slowly ceasing to a hum, as the sun crept lower in the sky. Crowley, however, was nowhere to be found.

When Aziraphale thought harder about it, he and Crowley had more in common than not. Admittedly, they also understood each other better than anyone else did. Immortality. The ill fate of confinement in this big blue - Aziraphale looked around the plaza for an apt metaphor - _fountain_ . _How very sixteenth century,_ he thought to himself, examining the nearest basin, immaculate water flowing evenly upwards through a mossy spout at the top. Yet, much like the fountain, the sands of time flowed cyclically for him, and not like the hourglass one would expect. Immortality: the perks and downsides.

  1. Aziraphale imagined it was not as boring as a life with steady flow and a set end date. No, despite having so much more time to kill in the long run, Aziraphale would wager that his life was more pleasantly spent. Eternal life (eternal, of course, until that distant day to which they were all counting down) enabled him to acquire the means to do whatever he pleased. If that meant wandering the Rialto while waiting for Crowley to show up, than that was what it would be. It was really quite beautiful here anyway.
  2. The drawbacks, however, sometimes seemed to outweigh the convenience. For instance, nobody else understood what it was like to live on a non-linear timeframe and those who did - those on the upper end of things in the hierarchy - had no time or patience to wax poetic about it with Aziraphale. Nobody understood the ill-begotten floating feeling of watching every string be snapped, every attachment that you ever made severed by that pesky little thing called death. No matter how selfless or holy -- no matter how careless or demonic -- it took a toll and not one other being understood it. Nobody but Crowley.



He should be here by now, Aziraphale thought grumpily for the third time, because although he technically had all the time in the world, he also had places to be and experiences to experience. A cup of tea would be nice, for one, and a pipe  -- these amenities were getting so much cheaper to come by, these days. Aziraphale glanced up at the skyline anxiously. Perhaps it was too late for tea after all. Before he could pull the heavy spring powered clock from the pocket of his overcoat, Aziraphale heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Enjoying the sunset?” Crowley sauntered up next to him, cat-like, in a flowy white tunic and a hideous pair of belted pantaloons.

“Yes, a nice afternoon sunset indeed,” Aziraphale snapped, his tone unable to contain the underlying fondness as he turned to face his companion, “You look hideous by the way.”

Crowley beamed as though it were a compliment, “Thank you. Just came from a pirating ship off the coast. Rowdy bunch, pirates - and drinkers. You’d like them.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Aziraphale clasped his hand behind Crowley’s back and nearly steered him towards one of the numerous winery stalls, “but I would like a drink. I’m afraid it’s a bit late for tea.”

Crowley shrugged. “When in Rome.”

“Venice, dear,” Aziraphale corrected.

***

Aziraphale paid for one large bottle of red wine with his very own spring powered clock. Encrusted with rubies and plated with gold, the thing could have easily bought the entire marketplace. Crowley didn’t ask him why, understood that it was tit for tat. If he was going to go off marauding with pirates, than Aziraphale would take it upon himself to right that wrong by a sweeping act of generosity. Nevermind that it was overcompensating for a bit of ship-hijacking and treachery, or that it played into that wine merchant’s sense of greed, or Aziraphale’s own sense of pride. There were many things that Crowley could say, but it had all been said before and would surely be said again, when Aziraphale was too drunk to remember it. Most importantly, he had to watch the battles he picked tonight because he was already several hours late and had been planning on asking Aziraphale a favor.

As the pair reached the shoreline, the last stragglers were just pulling their naked children from the water to wash up and return home. It was a warm night, a nice night for a swim, but the sun had fully set on the rippling waves and the tide was rising. Aziraphale propped himself up against some rocks a safe distance away, the bottle between them, and Crowley admired the glittering reflection of stars on the water. Damn this beautiful world.

“So, you missed me?” Aziraphale taunted him playfully through a mouthful of wine, “Or just bored?”

“Not bored, never bored.” Crowley answered truthfully, “Are you?” Crowley very rarely was. There was so much to do here, so many people to meet, mischievous ideas to plant in their unsuspecting heads. He imagined that setting things astray would be far more interesting than putting things back in place.

“I’m really not bored either, no.” Aziraphale leaned back, contented, “There’s always more to study, more places to see.”

“You haven’t run out yet?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, on the contrary, I ran out centuries ago, but I like to go back...check up on things. It’s like a whole new world every fifty years or so. Especially after the plague. Have you been Eastward since…?” Aziraphale’s eyes darkened as he trailed off.

“I haven’t, no,” Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly, fingers brushing against Aziraphale’s as he reached for the wine, “It was the most catastrophic thing I’d ever seen.”

“Your side was behind it I’m sure?”

“There had been some...disagreement. I swear to you, I was strongly opposed - horrified even.”

Aziraphale smiled warmly, a little sadly. “I believe it.”

“I’m curious though, why are you in Venice?” Crowley could feel his head getting sloshy, cheeks blooming with a pleasant warmth - results no doubt of the wine. It was the best Crowley had had in some time. Venice had risen from its ashes, reborn into this hub of food, thought, and art. It was a phoenix, but then, so was everything when your reality was cyclical.

“Mm,” Aziraphale smiled coyly, the redness in his ears betraying his composure. Three more sips and he would be slurring. Evidently aware that Crowley was observing this, the shorter man scowled. “I could ask you the same thing,” One sip down and Aziraphale rocked unsteadily against the jagged stone, “What is so important that you came all the way out here by pirate ship to see me?”

“You have to promise not to laugh.”

Aziraphale shot him his most serious expression, so overly dramatized that they both broke into a fit of giggles. Crowley shut his eyes, letting the sea breeze wash over him. It was really quite soothing, the sort of moment you treasure forever. Literally, because of the whole immortality thing.

“Tomorrow,” Crowley clarified, “When we’re less…”

Aziraphale snorted, as Crowley pulled him closer. “Stop being affectionate, fuh-rankly you’re shcaring me.”

They fell asleep against the rocks soon after, like a wayward pair of lovers.

 

***

 

The cafe was bright and open, with sculptures adorning the doors and a lovely ocean view. It was busy, mainly with gentry and clergymen, those with enough wealth and taste to afford such a thing. The only coffee house until Vienna, Aziraphale had told his companion as they stood beside the counter. He frequented it often since coming to Venice - typically to get the tea that was imported here. He only drank coffee when he was hungover.

“Two coffees,” Crowley told the attendant, as if reading his mind. The rich bitter smell of the stuff was enough to snap Aziraphale out of it, if only for the time that they stood at the counter, enjoying the visual appeal of roasted beans in marble bowls. When their drinks finally came, the pair took a seat outside.

Crowley sighed contentedly as he took a sip. “This is really good stuff, you know. I’m surprised it isn’t illegal here - by your people at least.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replied, hiding his sly smile behind his cup.

“Someday, they’ll have these little shops everywhere,” Crowley mused, “Mark my words if I know humans. This is going to get big.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale quirked his head. “Why...are you here again?”

Crowley almost looked embarrassed - for a split second, before sliding into a casual smirk, “Well, I am looking for some centuries-old information. A book, tablet, manuscript - anything really that you might have on it.”

“On what?” Aziraphale interrupted, “ And since when are you interested in reading? Or anything centuries-old for that matter?”

Crowley straightened. “All right, fine. You know that Tartan blanket I had - got it ‘round the mid 1200s in the Scottish Highlands?”

Aziraphale peered over his spectacles. “Mm, Yes. The pattern was indicative of the Galar clan. Good for you, tartan is fashionable these days.”

“That’s just the thing, though,” said Crowley, “I accidentally was having too much fun one night, a huge bonfire and, well, it burned up.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, as he let the sharpness of the beans and the coolness of the fresh milk, meld perfectly together over his tongue. Typical. “So go back to Scotland. Buy a new one. Or better yet, wish one into existence for yourself, like you do. I suppose if I had such questionable praxis, I wouldn’t be half as sentimental.”

Crowley looked down into his coffee glumly. “I can’t.”

“Nonsense. You always do.”

“No,” Crowley clarified, “There has to be something of its kind in this world already for me to wish myself a new one and the plague wiped every last Galar out. The make of this Tartan is lost along with the clan itself.”

“That’s a shame,” Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “I should have known this was about things and not about books.”

“Books are things,” the demon pointed out. He stirred his coffee with one long finger, looking past Aziraphale, into the sea.

“It really meant a lot to you, then?”

“It didn’t,” Crowley explained, “until the plague hit. Between you and me, I wasn’t able to live up to it - to revel in the death and destruction. I felt sick. I had friends who were Galars.”

“Hush now,” said Aziraphale, “It was only a test run.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Well, when the real apocalypse comes around, you’ll surely do better.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long to produce another chapter of not much plot or substance. I do have a good excuse, however. In the time between the last chapter and this, I went to Prague, fell horribly ill, was diagnosed with gallstones, and now I'm waiting for surgery. The good news, I guess, is that the story will probably wind up longer than three chapters. If anyone wants to beta for this one, hit me up in the comments. Since it's going to be longer and all that.
> 
> PS: Check out the very neat [art of this story](https://verycuteartprostitute.tumblr.com/post/176310817776/kierkegarden-have-written-a-lovely-chapter-of-a/) by Verycuteartprostitute on Tumblr. I really appreciate the support!

That was how Aziraphale found himself rummaging through shelves of artifacts in the basement of his estate - organized first by year and then by location, while Crowley leaned back against a pillar and watched him.  _ I really should clear some of this out _ , he thought to himself, leafing through a monastic illustration of The Fallen - a nostalgic sentiment. He couldn’t truthfully be annoyed at Crowley. The demon would probably upset the careful order of his filing if he attempted to be of service, anyway. 

“Let’s see here,” said Aziraphale out loud, “Scottish Highlands, 1200s, R, S,  _ T... _ Tartan, Tartan…” With a feather light touch, he lifted a thinly tanned bit of animal hide from its shelf. Frowning, he beconned Crowley to take a look.

The animal hide was painted with the distinctive tartan patterns of a number of clans. Macmillan, with its bright yellow streaks had survived its age the most successfully. Both sets of eyes travelled upwards to the mess of color in the second row. The deep purple - some root or berry, no doubt - that proudly stained the Fergusun clan’s tartan had bled across to its neighbor. Aziraphale could just barely make out the script -  _ Galar  _ \- below. The tartan, however, was completely obscured.

“Oh,” said Crowley, after a time, “I see.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened. “I really did try to preserve this. It was on a shelf,” He gestured uselessly towards where he had gotten the hide. “It must have happened during the flood.”

“Oh,” Crowley repeated, “Well it doesn’t matter anyway. I remember the pattern. I slept with the damned thing on my bed every night. I just wanted to know how I would go about weaving myself a new one.”

“You? Weaving?” Aziraphale actually let out a little snort. He had forgotten that Crowley insisted on sleeping when the sun went down, and not just after drinking. It was an entirely impractical use of time for a metaphysical being, but then, that was Crowley.

“No, not me weaving, are you mad, angel? Me hiring someone to weave. Nevermind, though. I’m sure in a hundred years, they’ll have invented one I like even better.” Crowley shrugged, as if trying to shake latent irritability, as he walked up the steps.

Aziraphale hastily refiled the hide - he would have to deal with that later - and bolted up after him.

“Wait, Crowley, don’t go,” he said, surprising even himself with the urgency in his tone. In Aziraphale’s experience, Crowley became attached to very little. Accustomed, yes. Accustomed to a sleep schedule, clever fashion, and good food and drink. One becomes accustomed to something in the body: it’s a comfort that is hard to live without, but not impossible. Tea, for one, or wine, or a nice library. Aziraphale had occasionally even become accustomed to humans, if they frequently said things that he found interesting or were particularly appealing to observe.

Attachment, however, took place in the soul and that was the real danger. The inevitability of the matter was that everything physical existed on borrowed time, and both the angel and the demon had more of that than they had bargained for. They had learned early on not to become attached to humans. Humans came and went, grains of sand in an ever shifting tide.

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale tentatively, “Your friends, the Galars, they...meant a lot to you as well?”

Crowley gritted his teeth. There was no point in lying. “I tried to spare them. You know how bargaining with Hastur is.”

Aziraphale really didn’t, but he reached out a hand to pat Crowley’s shoulder anyway. 

“Have a seat, dear boy.” The angel gestured to his sitting room where two low benches accompanied a sturdy oak table. He was beginning to formulate a plan.  

“He delighted in their annihilation,” Crowley sat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was behind the blanket being burned as well.”  He looked particularly worm-like in that moment, despite his human form.

“How dreadful. I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale bent down to retrieve a particularly expensive bottle of white wine - Bianchetta d'Alba, 1505, from Piedmont - from a rack in his sitting room, as Crowley looked on, his expression at the halfway point between indignant and amused.

“Again?”

Aziraphale straightened, and took a seat beside his friend. “To the Galars.” He held the bottle out towards Crowley’s empty hand.

“You didn’t even bother to pour it into glasses,” the demon remarked, taking it nevertheless.

 

***

 

“I propose a contest.” Aziraphale said, when they were good and tipsy, but not so drunk that they wouldn’t remember the purpose of the toast. 

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“We’re in Venice, in the heart of the humanist revival, surrounded by artisans who can make any dream become a reality.”

“Without anything to go off, though?” Crowley was clearly catching on. Aziraphale supposed that the more time you spent around a person, the harder it became to surprise them. It would have once bothered him, but at this point, there was comfort in it.

“You’d be astounded at some of the things these humans create -- ,” Aziraphale assured him, “Tiziano Vecellio’s  _ Sacred and Profane Love,  _ have you seen it?”

“I only just got here.”

“Fine,” said Aziraphale, who was very quickly surpassing tipsy, “You’ll have plenty of time to explore Venice and find an artist you like. Goodness, let’s not limit it to Venice. Draw the pattern out and we can find the best artist on earth.”

He yawned. Maybe there really was something in this sleeping thing. Someday, perhaps, he’d try it sober.

“Hell Below, it’s just a tartan,” Crowley smiled, leaning in uncomfortably close to Aziraphale, until it became comfortable - until they could taste the wine off one another’s breath. Their lips bumped together clumsily in a soft kiss. Ah, this. Aziraphale had been meaning to try this sober as well someday.

“It meant a lot to you,” he whispered, as they broke apart.

“Genuine angel.” said Crowley, shaking his head. “Thank you, by the way.”

***

 

Vecelli’s studio was across town, in an inland neighborhood of Venice that had recently been annexed into the city. It was still quicker to travel by boat and then by foot, than by foot entirely. The pirate’s galleon that had transported Crowley to the Italian peninsula had long since left for Spain, but it didn’t matter - Aziraphale had explained, as they approached the lagoon. Crowley tried his best not to look too impressed as his eyes drank in thousands of gondolas nestled on the shoreline like beasts in slumber. 

From the other side of the coast, it was a straight shot up into the residential district, where alleys curved this way and that, the cobbled roads halted mid-way through construction. Aziraphale explained that Venice had tried an aggressive expansion about ten years ago, and many of the projects that had been planned had been halted. He rambled on about the complexities of Italian politics, old merchant families, and economics until Crowley comfortably tuned him out, admiring the architecture instead. The sea breeze could still be felt all the way up here and the sun hung low in the sky, suspended like a plump fruit off of the branch of a tree. It was no wonder Aziraphale had settled down here. If he closed his eyes for just a minute, Crowley could imagine that he was back in the Garden. 

“Here we are,” said Aziraphale, finally, stopping all too quickly in front of a large estate, not unsimilar to the angel’s own, “Do be civil. You know how these artist types are.”

Crowley nodded. “Certainly. They are some of our best advocates, after all.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from the other side (of a year). I was, in fact, intending on abandoning this story a year ago and then Good Omens the television show came out and we're back, baby, with plenty of new directions to take this.

The door. Aziraphale had been thinking about Vecelli’s front door. Not in a covetous way, although it was a great deal more ornate than his own, with its angel-headed knocker and lattice-carved edges. In the five minutes it had taken them to march up to Vecelli’s doorstep, exchange a few choice words, and have it slammed practically into their noses, Aziraphale’s opinion of both the door and its owner had been turned on its head.

“Well, that was rude,” he said, turning to Crowley. Certainly, the demon should have been upset, anger being a circle of hell -- his turf, as it were -- but Crowley just shrugged.

“Artists,” he shook his head, “Creatives. So sensitive, so...temperamental. And they take themselves so seriously all the time. Really, angel, it’s fine.”

Aziraphale slumped his way over to nearest tree. It was muggy and humid and he could just barely hear the buzzing of mosquitoes at his ear. Letting his body collide with its sturdy trunk, Aziraphale let himself fall melodramatically to the earth below. Crowley’s rendition of the tartan was going all sweaty in his hand.

“What did we  _ say?” _

“‘Do you know how to weave Scottish tartan?’ I think, is what you said. And he said --”

“Oh hush,” said Aziraphale, not particularly wanting to recount Vecelli’s slew of curses, “I just wish I knew what we did wrong.”

 

***

 

(Tiziano Vecelli, or "The Sun Amidst Small Stars" as he was known, could have and would have explained to Aziraphale with increasingly colorful and tumultuous language exactly what he had done wrong. You see, Vecelli was firstly an Italian and secondly a painter. He took pride in both of those things, in that order. He also was not used to being the wrong man for a job. 

From dusk til dawn, The Sun had nobles of varying importance with varying sizes of pocketbooks inquiring about his commissions. Being that he was a man of talent, he could afford to turn down those lesser-grade requests. 

Vecelli was prepared to turn down the strange man when he noted (aptly) that he was neither Italian nor noble. He was not prepared to be asked to produce a Scottish textile, a request that went against both his very nature as an Italian and a painter.

Besides which, Crowley hadn’t been entirely wrong. Vecelli was an artist, after all, and thus was as sensitive, self-inflated, and temperamental as any good artist should be. He was also a humanist, entailing an appreciation for all things human, which is to say, he was shit faced on that Saturday afternoon. All of these things were factors that Aziraphale should have perhaps weighed.)

 

***

 

“What now?” said Aziraphale, gratefully accepting Crowley’s hand up and brushing himself off. They were walking back towards the heart of the city, but Aziraphale couldn’t stop to appreciate the delightful little alley -- the shops and studios and homey little nests. He couldn’t help feeling, well, like he had failed.

“I suppose,” Crowley kept stride, looking far less troubled. “Back to my old wicked mistress --”

“Your what?”

“The  _ sea,  _ angel. Easy now.”

Crowley laughed heartily and Aziraphale gave an embarrassed little chuckle.

“Yes but what about the tartan?”

“What about it?”

“You came all this way and I couldn’t even make the most minor of miracles.”

“Came all this way for the tartan, yes.” Now it was Crowley’s turn to flush, “Pity there’s nothing to be done about that. Eh, I’ll get over it. There’s a galavanting that needs done. My deck hand’s son swears he’s seen a mermaid off the coast of Spain. Would you like to come with me?”

For just a moment, Aziraphale entertained the idea. His books all loaded into heavy trunks with brass clasps, heaved up on the muscular backs of Crowley’s crew to be shoved into the ship’s belly. The two of them, standing side-by-side, duel spyglasses scanning rough waters. Long nights in the captain’s quarters, dips in the tepid shallow. 

There was a sort of picaresque romance to it all, a companionship Aziraphale longed for desperately, so terribly tempting _.  _ That is, it was, until he considered the stale rations, moldy old wood, and unseemly types that practiced piracy. Not to mention the act of piracy itself, which would surely get him a strongly worded letter from the folks upstairs. 

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale shook his head, “I get...seasick.”

“Shame,” Crowley said. If he was truly disappointed, he hid it well. “Well, I’ve got one more night here at least. Do you mind terribly if I stay with you?”

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “Not terribly.”

 

***

 

It was the middle of the night and Aziraphale couldn’t sleep. Not that he needed to, of course, but it was very nice and he enjoyed having the option. On a normal night, he would simply incur a small miracle, but as it so happened, there was a demon sprawled across his loveseat, snoring softly. Aziraphale very much wanted to be awake to send his friend off and for some stupid reason, he had decided to trade off his spring-powered clock. 

Tiptoeing past Crowley, the angel made his way down the ricketing stair to his basement, cringing as the boards creaked beneath his feet. He had liked his life here in Venice. He was comfortable. The food was extraordinary. The art! The churches! Ignoring the politics, most everything here was delightful. Until yesterday, he had intended to stay for as long as possible.

That’s not what angels do, Aziraphale thought to himself. Angels do good works. They  _ help  _ people. 

People, of course, being the word that was catching him up. Angels were supposed to help people. Not demons. 

On days like this, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit envious of Crowley. His friend’s bosses never were bothered by petty distinctions. Crowley’s work practically did itself. Aziraphale’s on the other hand, well, you had to careful about doing good deeds. Evil could masquerade as a force of light and pop up on the other side like an horrifying jack-in-the-box. 

That’s why, Aziraphale rationalized with himself, it wasn’t  _ for  _ Crowley. Without their clan’s tartan, the Galars could be wiped from the history books. The only known replica of their clan pattern had been waterlogged thanks to Aziraphale’s less than satisfactory archival practices. It was all he could do to make things right. 

Fitting Crowley’s sketch across the Galar section on the painted hide, Aziraphale closed his eyes and let them fuse together for safe keeping. Tomorrow, Crowley would set sail for Spain and as soon as he was gone, Aziraphale would head off on his own excursion. 

The world was not getting any younger. Nor, after all, was it getting any gooder on its own.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, there is no proper way to do footnotes on AO3. Which is fine by me, seeing as this story is anything but proper. At some point, I might try to restructure the story entirely as the short chapter format doesn't do anything for me. I hope nobody expected anything to, like, actually happen. Back to the plot in a jiffy, promise.

Crowley loved the feeling of ocean air on his face. Ocean air was so special, so fresh, and so unique to nature that Crowley was sure humans would find a way to bottle and capitalize on it in the next few centuries. If not, he decided he would have to give them a little nudge in the right direction.(1) 

Piracy, on the other hand, was something that Crowley predicted was truly timely. 

It was too chaotic not to be shut down. The drinking, the gambling, the whoring, the gallivanting. Even if its notoriety was mostly all in the name and the reality of piracy was shivering in your smallclothes in a bunk that was barely big enough to lie flat on. That was part of the fun, Crowley thought to himself, that humans convinced themselves that this was the ultimate form of freedom.

Piracy was actually far more structured than it appeared. You still had to keep order enough for the ship to function, which meant taking orders from a captain. Pirates still had a code, albeit a more democratic and denationalized one. Piracy was still hard work. You had to swab the deck and heave the sails and steer the mast and all of the other duties that Crowley enjoyed barking out as commands to his crew. And all the while, you couldn’t complain because you were a  _ pirate _ and being a pirate meant being fancy-free. It was part of the gig. Complainers really dampened the (already quite damp) mood and Crowley could order them to walk the plank. He didn’t, but he could -- which was a sort of potential evil and therefore counted.

Humans really did create their own worst hells and romanticized the hell out of them. It was the romance of piracy that drew young criminals and vagabonds but it was the promise of rising through the ranks that kept them. In that way, they were just like bureaucrats. Smelly, brutal, alcoholic bureaucrats. 

Crowley took a deep swig from the flask of brew at his belt. Human psychology was fascinating. He would like to study it, when it became a formal matter of study, which he was sure that it some day would. Spend a couple centuries walking in a human’s shoes and you begin to walk in circles. Crowley fancied himself an expert already. Perhaps, he thought to himself, in a few centuries he’d put the thought into some poor schmo's head that humans acted so human-y because of an all-pervasive Oedipus complex. That was sure to get the ball rolling. 

Adjusting his tinted spectacles, Crowley looked towards the sun and then back at his deck hand who was tightening the rigging. 

“You there,” he barked out, “Go into the bulkhead and wake those lazy sons of bitches up. We’re setting course and leaving in the hour while the waves are still mild.”

 

***

 

Several blocks from the harbor on the mouth of the lagoon where Crowley’s ship was docked, a man named Pieter Bruegel was similarly contemplating the calm waters. To Bruegel, Venice in the summer was idyllic. This could have something to do with the fact that the young artist also hailed from a swamp and was used to the humidity, the murky water, and hungry mosquitoes. He was a Dutchman, in Italy for the year to study under the best and improve his craft. The only problem was everything was going  _ well. _

Like many artists, Bruegel performed best when brooding over something. Only, there was so little to complain about. The water was calm, the day was clear, and the sky filled with fluffy white clouds. He found himself missing the Netherlands where at least the winters were uncomfortable and thus his art could flourish.

Bruegel bit his paintbrush between his teeth. If he couldn’t draw inspiration from the landscape, he could surely picture something biblical. The bible was full of all kinds of unpleasant things: maimings and killings and stonings and such. Only, again, the Dutchman was coming up empty. This was Italy, for heaven’s sake, and the place was peppered with beautiful churches, intricate cathedrals, and stunning depictions of biblical scenes. Nothing was ugly or angsty here, not even the renditions of Lucifer. It was all too pleasant.

However, Bruegel was no amateur. There was plenty of mythos for him to draw inspiration from, aside from the traditional religious sort. The Greeks! They loved bitterness and discomfort and melancholy. There had to be something to that.

Bruegel portioned himself a blob of deep green paint next to the white and began to mix, the colors swirling into a soft sea foam that mimicked the Venetian waters. Just then, he heard a loud splash off of the coast. Bruegel jumped to his feet and peered over into the water, where a man was bobbing to the surface. He blinked. Surely, that had not been a feathered wing fluttering below the tide?

“Signore?” The Dutchman carefully set his paintbrush down and toed his way all the way up to the water’s edge. “Are you quite all right?”

The man looking back up at him was drenched, from the wide sleeves of his unseasonable overcoat to his soft blond locks. He did not, from what Bruegel could see, have wings. Besides, he was more rotund than any portrayal of an angel that Bruegel had ever seen. Likely just a day drunk, Bruegel thought to himself, or a madman.

“Oh, smashing,” the man in the water replied with a forced smile, “I’m sure I’ll be alright. I just took...a fall.”

A fall. The sky might as well have shaken with the choir of a thousand angels for all Bruegel was concerned. It was from God’s mouth to his ear.

“I,” he said, straightening, “I must get back to my painting.”

“Fine by me,” said the portly man, shaking the water from his sopping hair and climbing to the dock, “I’ll just be going.”

_ Icarus, _ thought Bruegel gleefully,  _ I shall call it The Fall Of Icarus _ (2) .

 

***

 

When he could finally be sure he was completely alone, Aziraphale willed himself dry. What an utter humiliation! He had been so silly to think he could jump right back to flying after so many years out of practice. It had been centuries after all. These days, you could hardly get away with a tiny bit of white magick without an audience accusing you of witchcraft, let alone the wings. 

Oh, he did miss them, though. The soft, fluttering feathers, the feeling of sweeping over the earth more quickly than any boat or carriage. He would need that speed too, if he was to get from here to the Highlands in any reasonable amount of time. A quick self-indulgent miracle wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

“Lord, let me fly with grace and speed,” Aziraphale said to himself. Hesitating slightly, he added, “and let that good painter’s new work move the minds and hearts of generations to come.”

He couldn’t let himself be too selfish.

 

* * *

1\. Axe's Recharge Deodorant in _Ocean Breeze(™)_ scent really did nothing to capture the majesty of the sea, but that, Crowley thought, half a millennium later, was part of the fun. It was interpretative. 

2\. The English poet W. H. Auden interpreted the _Fall of Icarus_ to be a masterwork on the concept of simultaneity and was moved enough to write a poem about it. He was not wrong.  _The Fall of Icarus_ is _simultaneously_ one of the great humanist works of the sixteenth century and the only one to feature both Aziraphale and Crowley as a muse. 

 


End file.
